


Afterword

by Mortissimo



Category: Brick (2005)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-15
Updated: 2010-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:20:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mortissimo/pseuds/Mortissimo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendan Frye, starting to deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afterword

   Brendan didn't know what to do, and so he did what he should have been doing the whole week; he went to class. Creaky, stiff with dried blood and bruises and sleep deprivation, he slid into desk after desk, staring at the unknowing adults telling him unimportant thing after unimportant thing. Brendan didn't think to bring pens or paper, but none of his teachers seemed to notice, though all around him he heard the whispers of his classmates. At lunch, Trueman called Brendan into his office, and Brendan went, staring dumbly as Trueman alternately chastised and extolled him, finally sending him to his next class with a few minutes to spare. Brendan went, not really knowing what he'd said and not really caring, because the only thing Brendan heard was the one word Laura had said in his ear, the one word that was probably the one true thing she had ever said to him.

    After school, Brendan waited for his bus out front, with his hands in the pockets of his coat to keep them from trembling. He heard more than saw the Brain come up next to him, in the persistent clicking of a Rubik's cube and the quiet tread and the constant shifting of cloth.

    "This isn't your stop." They felt like the first words he'd said all day.

    "I thought you could use some company." Out of the corner of his eye, Brendan saw a flash of color and movement, and he caught the cube before it really occurred to him to do so. "Was I wrong?"

    "No." Brendan stared down at the tiny colored squares in his hands. Eventually, the bus arrived, and Brendan trudged onboard. It was when the Brain slid into the seat next to him that Brendan finally looked up, met the Brain's eyes behind those thick glasses. The Brain raised his eyebrows, waiting, but Brendan said nothing, only handed back the Rubik's cube. They rode in silence, elbows and knees knocking together on the bumps. There was a hard knot in the center of Brendan's chest. He wanted to scream, or curl up, or cry, or all of it. He didn't. Brendan wasn't sure when Brain had abandoned the cube and laced their fingers together, trapped between his leg and Brendan's, but he did notice the sudden absence of the warmth and firm pressure, left cold and listless as Brain stood. Brendan stared up at him, mystified, until he realized it was his stop. Brendan went.

    The Brain followed a step behind, a steady presence at Brendan's shoulder. After the week he'd had, Brendan would have thought he'd mind being tracked so closely, but this was the Brain, and Brendan found it kind of comforting. It was when Brendan held open the door, when he threw his coat into a chair and turned around to see the Brain standing in the middle of Brendan's mother's kitchen like he'd grown roots there, that Brendan began to feel disconcerted. The week of no sleep and lots of beatings was wearing on him, dragging his eyelids down and the world into a profound blur, like he'd already removed his glasses.

    "I'm crashing. I'm crashed." Brendan self-corrected almost instantly, feeling himself wavering on his feet.

    "I see that." Still Brain stood, steady as a rock, briefcase clenched tightly in one hand.

    "I'm going to bed," Brendan tried, but Brain refused to move.

    "Best plan you've had all week." Brendan gave up, turning away and heading for his room. Behind him, he could hear Brain padding softly along, over the scuffed linoleum and the threadbare carpet. When Brendan got up to his room he let Brain shut the door without checking to see if he was still being followed. A soft click told Brendan that he had been. Defiantly, as though it would do him any good, Brendan stripped off his t-shirt in one sharp movement, ignoring the pull on the cut on his arm. The shoes, too, went, but the jeans stayed on as Brendan slid into bed, facing the wall so he wouldn't have to watch Brain watch him.

    There were a series of quiet sounds behind him, rustling and hushed thuds. Brendan kept his eyes trained on the wall, flinching only when blunt, nail-bitten fingers glided into his view and deftly retrieved his glasses, leaving Brendan staring at a blurrier version of the too-close white paint he'd been staring at before. It shouldn't have been much of a surprise, after that, when the comforter shifted and Brain slid in behind him. Warm skin at his back, thin arm curled around his chest, steady breaths ruffling his hair. Brendan at once felt both exhausted and enervated.

    "Every time you turn the corner from me, you walk back to me with a limp," the Brain said into Brendan's hair. Brendan felt the ghost of the words in the vibration of the chest pressed to his back, felt the sharp breaths which made them.

    "It's ended now," Brendan answered, and hoped he wasn't lying.

    "Good." The Brain's hand spread out over Brendan's heart, pressed tightly, and Brendan felt the knot there loosen a little. "I'll be here when you wake up."

    "Good," Brendan echoed, and when he slipped into sleep he did not dream.

**Author's Note:**

> It's very short, but I don't feel as if I should continue it because if I write anything else it's going to turn into a monster.  
> Anyway, I wanted to write it in the midst of the Inception fusion. So.


End file.
